told me that he got my message. Even if he wasn't about to be distracted by it.
He tightened his hold on my hand. "I'm serious, Pepper. You may think it's a sort of scavenger hunt and that you'll find information you can use on your cemetery tour or in your book, but RudyScarpetti is as much of a scumbag as his father ever was. That's why they call him the Cootie. If he hears that you've been poking your pretty little nose—"
"Is my nose pretty?"
It was Quinn's turn to sigh. "You're trying to change the subject and it's not going to work. Yes, your nose is pretty. So is the rest of you. But—" His compliments were completely ruined by that one word.
"You have to believe me when I say I know what I'm talking about. I've had some dealings with these people and it hasn't been pretty. I want you to promise. Right here. Right now."
"Promise that—"
"That you won't pry. That you won't ask questions. That you'll stay out ofScarpetti business."
I promised.
And if Quinn didn't happen to notice that behind my back, my fingers were crossed?
It was just as well. There was no use trying to explain that staying out ofScarpetti Family business…
well, it was way too late for that.
Chapter 7
Things were finally looking up.
And it wasn't just because of my close-but-not-quite-close-enough encounter with Quinn, either. All right, sure, right before he hurried out to meet with his attorney, we talked about seeing each other again and every time I thought about it, my heart pumped hot and hard, like I'd drained an entire pot of the high-octane coffeeJennine made at the office. But like they say on those hokey TV commercials… wait!
There was even more.
There were three messages on my answering machine when I got back to Garden View on Monday morning. One was from the aforementioned Quinn, who didn't ask if I had the evening free or even if I wanted to go; he'd called in a favor, he told me, and he got us a table. His message was short and sweet: I was to meet him atPietro's the next Thursday night at eight o'clock sharp.
If I listened to half of the female-empowerment speeches Ella spouted, I would have known enough to be insulted by his high-handed tactics.
Guess I'm not much of a listener. I wrotePietro's on my calendar for eight o'clock on Thursday and underlined it. In red.
The second message was from Dan. In spite of how it probably sounds, I hadn't forgotten about him. At least not completely. As opposed to Quinn who, cashmere aside, struck me as the take-no-prisoners type, Dan was one of those guys who held doors for women. Heck, he'd even asked my permission before he walked me home.
There were times a girl needed to feed off the kind of raw energy that shivered around Quinn like the halo of a flame. But there were times she was looking for warm and fuzzy, too.
Until I decided which I wanted—and needed—more, I'd be a dope to let either Quinn or Dan get away.
Especially since when Dan called and asked me if I could please meet him for coffee, he never once mentioned my cerebellum.
The third message…
Well, as soon as I heard it, my spirits soared and the reason was simple. The third message—finally and hallelujah—was from Saks.
"Saks. Saks. Saks." It was Monday evening and I chanted the single, wonderful word in a happy sing-song as I drove upCedar Road towardBeechwood Mall, the city's premier shopping area.
Saks, where I used to shop with wild abandon and my dad's credit card.
Saks, where long before I ended up leading old people around the graves of dead people, I'd applied for a job, number one, because I had to pay my rent and number two (and far more important), because I loved everything from the ambiance to the merchandise to the pricey smell of the place. I'd filled out the application so long before, I figured they'd lost it in the shuffle. But then…
A call. From Saks. About a job.
Saks.
Where I'd bought my wedding gown.
The ugly thought struck out of nowhere, and I got rid of it
He tightened his hold on my hand. "I'm serious, Pepper. You may think it's a sort of scavenger hunt and that you'll find information you can use on your cemetery tour or in your book, but RudyScarpetti is as much of a scumbag as his father ever was. That's why they call him the Cootie. If he hears that you've been poking your pretty little nose—"
"Is my nose pretty?"
It was Quinn's turn to sigh. "You're trying to change the subject and it's not going to work. Yes, your nose is pretty. So is the rest of you. But—" His compliments were completely ruined by that one word.
"You have to believe me when I say I know what I'm talking about. I've had some dealings with these people and it hasn't been pretty. I want you to promise. Right here. Right now."
"Promise that—"
"That you won't pry. That you won't ask questions. That you'll stay out ofScarpetti business."
I promised.
And if Quinn didn't happen to notice that behind my back, my fingers were crossed?
It was just as well. There was no use trying to explain that staying out ofScarpetti Family business…
well, it was way too late for that.
Chapter 7
Things were finally looking up.
And it wasn't just because of my close-but-not-quite-close-enough encounter with Quinn, either. All right, sure, right before he hurried out to meet with his attorney, we talked about seeing each other again and every time I thought about it, my heart pumped hot and hard, like I'd drained an entire pot of the high-octane coffeeJennine made at the office. But like they say on those hokey TV commercials… wait!
There was even more.
There were three messages on my answering machine when I got back to Garden View on Monday morning. One was from the aforementioned Quinn, who didn't ask if I had the evening free or even if I wanted to go; he'd called in a favor, he told me, and he got us a table. His message was short and sweet: I was to meet him atPietro's the next Thursday night at eight o'clock sharp.
If I listened to half of the female-empowerment speeches Ella spouted, I would have known enough to be insulted by his high-handed tactics.
Guess I'm not much of a listener. I wrotePietro's on my calendar for eight o'clock on Thursday and underlined it. In red.
The second message was from Dan. In spite of how it probably sounds, I hadn't forgotten about him. At least not completely. As opposed to Quinn who, cashmere aside, struck me as the take-no-prisoners type, Dan was one of those guys who held doors for women. Heck, he'd even asked my permission before he walked me home.
There were times a girl needed to feed off the kind of raw energy that shivered around Quinn like the halo of a flame. But there were times she was looking for warm and fuzzy, too.
Until I decided which I wanted—and needed—more, I'd be a dope to let either Quinn or Dan get away.
Especially since when Dan called and asked me if I could please meet him for coffee, he never once mentioned my cerebellum.
The third message…
Well, as soon as I heard it, my spirits soared and the reason was simple. The third message—finally and hallelujah—was from Saks.
"Saks. Saks. Saks." It was Monday evening and I chanted the single, wonderful word in a happy sing-song as I drove upCedar Road towardBeechwood Mall, the city's premier shopping area.
Saks, where I used to shop with wild abandon and my dad's credit card.
Saks, where long before I ended up leading old people around the graves of dead people, I'd applied for a job, number one, because I had to pay my rent and number two (and far more important), because I loved everything from the ambiance to the merchandise to the pricey smell of the place. I'd filled out the application so long before, I figured they'd lost it in the shuffle. But then…
A call. From Saks. About a job.
Saks.
Where I'd bought my wedding gown.
The ugly thought struck out of nowhere, and I got rid of it
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